


First Meetings

by majesticmcold



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticmcold/pseuds/majesticmcold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Hobbit one-shot. Gandalf happens to pass through a village where the dwarves are currently settled. There’s some uncle-nephew bonding. Kids play with fireworks. Thorin broods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> The timing is off, because I mentioned Gimli when I shouldn’t have (technically he wouldn’t have even been born when this is set - somewhere in the TA 2860s), but I wanted Gimli to be there, so yeah.

The sound of the hammer was sharp and clear, a steady sound that resonated through the small forge. Thorin Oakenshield was pounding the metal with a skilled precision, unmatched by the Men in the little village they had settled by for the time being.

‘ _Far over, the Misty Mountains cold …_ ’ the young dwarf prince sung under his breath, in time with his hammer. _Far over, indeed._ The song had become something of a mantra to him, as he worked away in an effort to support his people.

A clanging noise behind him, the sound of carefully forged helms falling off their racks accompanied by hushed voices, interrupted his ritual. Thorin set down his tools and wiped the sweat off his brow, flinging his wet hair out of his face.

‘Fíli! Kíli! Why are you not with your mother?’

‘We wanted to see you, uncle,’ Fíli answered, crawling forward with one of the helms.

Thorin’s heart softened at the sight of his young nephews, with their impossibly bright, innocent eyes. They had not known the horrors that he had; this was the life they were used to. _They deserve a better one. One that befits the children of Durin._

‘Ow!’ came another voice from the back. Thorin shot a stern look mixed with amusement towards the two brothers, before striding over to the source of the sound. A hand reached out and snagged the clothes of Ori, lifting him high above the ground.

The young dwarf squealed in fright, but Thorin just shooks his head. ‘Bringing others along on your adventures, are you?’ he asked his nephews.

‘I didn’t want to come!’ Ori protested squeakily. ‘I just wanted to stay home with my writings –’

‘But writing’s no good!’ Kíli exclaimed, picking up the slingshot that had fallen out of Ori’s pocket when Thorin lifted him up. He drew it back and aimed, much like an archer would with a bow and arrow. ‘Not when we’re going to reclaim Erebor! You need to know how to fight, Ori!’

Thorin’s bright blue eyes saddened. They had such high dreams, and the reclaiming of Erebor by the dwarves of Durin’s Folk seemed a certainty to his young nephews. He blamed himself, of course. Dís had warned him against filling the boys’ heads with thoughts of adventure and gold and dragon-slaying.

‘Gandalf is here! Gandalf is here!’ cried a little human child, scurrying past the front of the forge. Thorin set Ori down, who immediately followed the human to see what the fuss was about.

But Fíli and Kíli stayed with their uncle.

‘Tell us about Erebor, uncle,’ Kíli begged, his eyes imploring.

‘We want to hear it again,’ Fíli agreed.

Thorin sighed heavily, as though the weight of generations, of the entire mountain, were upon his shoulders. ‘Alright then.’ Thorin sat himself down on a nearby chair, and the dwarflings moved closer. Thorin lifted Kíli up onto his leg, while Fíli rested on his knees and stared up at his uncle with fixation and awe.

‘Can we hear about the Arkenstone?’ Kíli asked, his voice quiet.

A small sad smile twitched the corners of his mouth. ‘Very well,’ Thorin said gruffly, but as he was about to begin, a figure appeared at the entrance to the forge.

It was a human, tall even for their standards, cloaked all in grey. A long white beard, almost worthy of the dwarves, adorned his face, and he leant upon a tall wooden staff. He lifted the brim of his grey pointed hat to peer at the three dwarves.

‘Ah,’ the wizard said pleasantly. ‘I thought I had spotted a dwarf settlement on my way here.’

‘What’s it to you?’ Thorin asked, somewhat brusquely. He bounced his leg a few times, giving Kíli the order to move, and Kíli did so, sliding down to the floor next to his brother.

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ Gandalf the Grey replied. ‘It’s not my place to concern myself with the troubles of dwarves.’ There was a slight twinkle in his blue eyes.

Gandalf seemed to have amassed himself a following of young children, human and dwarf alike. The humans were pleading with Gandalf for something, while the dwarves were staring up at the man with curiosity, wondering what was so special about the stranger with the big stick.

‘Oh, alright.’ Gandalf thumped his staff against the ground, twice, and behind him squeals of delight erupted as small fireworks suddenly appeared in the streets of the village. Fíli and Kíli, not ones to miss out on any form of excitement, sped out to join their kin, and soon enough, Fíli, Kíli and Ori were scurrying about, chasing a bright blue firework that liked to dance around their heads.

Gandalf chuckled to himself and fixed up his robes before setting off down the street, leaning heavily on his staff. Thorin’s arms were folded as he exited the forge, and there was a frown on his face as he surveyed the playing children.

‘Do you know who that was, Thorin?’ said a familiar voice next to him. Thorin turned to see Balin, his most trusted friend and advisor. The dwarf, not that much younger than Thorin himself, had already started to go grey.

Thorin shrugged, his bushy eyebrows meeting. ‘Some wizard. Makes no difference to me who he is.’

‘ _Gandalf_ , Thorin. Gandalf the Grey.’

‘Your point is?’

‘If there was any wizard likely to help us,’ Balin said quietly, ‘it would be that one. He has knowledge stretching back to the dawn of Middle Earth, and power beyond anything we could imagine. He may be elusive and as cunning as any other, but if the rumours have it true, he has a soft spot for us little folk.’

Thorin grunted. His frown deepened in thought, and he barely saw Kíli trip over his own feet and go sprawling in the dust.

‘In any case, he is gone,’ Thorin said finally. ‘If he is truly meant to help us, we will meet again. In the meantime, we have to prepare for the very likely possibility that we shall get no help from the grey wizard, or any other wizard for that matter.’

Beyond Balin, Thorin could see the pub. The proprietor had set up a table outside, reserved especially for the dwarves. Thorin thought that was a smart move, after the mess his kin had left the first time they visited for beer.

But there was nothing they could do to stop the noise. Uproar reached the dwarf prince’s ears, a mixture of laughter, shouts and other rather ill-mannered noises.

But Thorin smiled. These were his people. Bifur, the simple toymaker. Bofur, the cheerful dwarf always ready for a laugh, with his clarinet – which, even as Thorin watched, Bofur used to poke his brother Bombur’s steadily growing belly. That earned another raucous laugh from the rest of the table. Glóin, who was shouting at his son Gimli to stay seated, even as Gimli looked over at the wizard’s fireworks with longing.

Dwalin, the fierce-looking dwarf warrior, had looked around to see what the noise from the fireworks was, and upon spotting the young dwarves chasing the crackers, slammed his mug down on the table and lumbered over to the trio, picking up a laughing Kíli as easily as a barrel and swinging him around. Fíli retaliated by launching an attack, and while Ori practised his slingshot aim on Dwalin, Fíli hopped on Dwalin’s back and pounded his tiny fists into Dwalin’s shoulder. He may as well have been punching a mountain.

And yet, even as Thorin watched on, he could not get Erebor out of his mind. The shadow of the Lonely Mountain followed him, no matter how far they strayed from home. _We should not be here._ Not for the first time, Thorin cursed the fire-drake Smaug for taking what was his.

Balin glanced at his friend, his king, knowing exactly what was on his mind.

‘I’ll get it back, Balin,’ Thorin vowed, his eyes on Fíli and Kíli. _For them. It is their birth right._

‘I know you will,’ Balin replied gently, putting a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. ‘We have never doubted you, and we never will.’


End file.
